Cliché
by Xenia van Hausen
Summary: A series of clichés spanning across different timelines for America and England as their fates intertwine. (AUs included.)


_March 24, 2013_

_I really shouldn't be starting all these new stories, but they just come. All of them are really simple oneshots, but I like bundling them up under different collection titles. Please bear with me._

* * *

**Cliché**

It was a horribly cliche rut that he fell into.

America sipped intermittently at his glass of wine, standing amidst dolled-up European ladies in tight-fitting silk dresses and prim-and-proper European gentlemen donned in dashing suits. The ballroom filled with rich citizens from every corner of the earth, slow and smooth transitions from one face to another, but the scene stayed the same. America stood by himself, yet he was surrounded by the indecipherable whir of chatter in every direction. His eyes lazily—though it was anything but—scoured the suffocating mass of people with fabricated scents of all the brands and more than America could possibly know.

Ah, there he was.

A wry smile twisted onto America's lips as he brought the wine to his mouth. For a minute there, he almost expected to find England in a secluded corner of the room, nursing at a glass of champagne, a scowl scrunching up those eyebrows of his. Why the other nations liked to tease England of that, America didn't know; though, he was guilty of the same. The wine tasted sour in his mouth. Of course he would tease England. How else could he speak with him naturally?

But never mind. There he was now, a separation of tens of people away from America, talking amiably with a pair in matching black and gray. America raked his eyes down England, wondering just how he could look smashing in anything he decided to throw on. America peeked down at his own clothes, a slightly used suit with his favorite navy blue dress shirt paired with a gray tie. It was the best he had, but stealing another glance at England further damaged what was left of his earlier self-confidence. He didn't have the nerve to approach England tonight, though he steeled himself for it weeks ago.

Red. America didn't think he would ever admit that he like red on England, but he couldn't stop the thought from crossing his mind as England laughed and shook hands with the man, giving a kiss to the knuckles of the beaming lady accompanying him.

England straightened and the mirth left his face once no one was in his direct company. America wanted to know why, to jump up to him and act ridiculous in attempts to make him smile, truly smile. Their eyes met as England scanned the room and America was paralyzed. He had missed the glint in those eyes. He had forgotten their shape. America realized in the back of his mind that he was closer to England than when he first caught sight of him, but he didn't care to remember why. He only wanted to catch his wrist and pull him into his embrace. Was he bigger than England now? He remembered when he fit snugly against England's chest, having his hair petted and his back rubbed soothingly. Shh, don't cry, America. Shh. I'm right here, aren't I?

America needed but ten steps more before he reached England, but someone already snatched the opportunity and called for England's attention. Their eyes lingered a second more, before England turned and smiled at his new company, and America felt his chest grow heavy and his heart jump in disappointment. He had been trapped in an enchantment, the dream-like quality that surrounded him as he was truly planning on snatching England's wrist and pulling him close. America frowned, a rather unattractive scowl on his face as he realized what he was about to do. America sighed, his hand itching to run through his hair, but he couldn't forget that he was surrounded by important figures from around the world, businessmen and politicians and government leaders.

No one paid much attention to him; he was a young country, just settling into comfortable industrialization, and there was England, Great Britain, the Empire that stretched across the globe and commanded the seas. Of course they would vy for his attention and affections.

But was that what America was doing, too?

He looked up and noticed that England had left the previous spot he occupied, and America's head shot up and around, hoping to find him again. A gap between the grand doors slowly slid shut, and America didn't know how, but he was certain England was the cause of it. He was beyond those doors, heading up to the deck of the luxury ship—a cruise liner.

America weaved through the mass of affluent guests, trying to slip past without much attention - which was quite easy considering his status in the world - and followed after England.

And sure enough, he was there, leaning over the railings and breathing in a cigar. America scrunched up his nose at it, but there wasn't much he could do. He stuffed his hands inside his pants pockets and said, "Hey."

He could see England stiffen in reflex and smooth it away just as quickly. England looked over his shoulder at America nonchalantly. He scoffed. "Why, hello."

America furrowed his brow. What was with the scoff? "That's your reaction?" he stepped closer and waited for England to turn around and actually look at him.

They both watched the swirl of smoke extend from England's mouth, who breathed, "What kind of reaction were you expecting?"

America bit his lip. Nothing much different than he got, but… He laughed dryly to himself. "Nothing. I wasn't expecting anything in particular." He leaned against the railing, too, and watched the undulations of the dark water. The moon was bright tonight.

The silence was tense between them, and America was thinking that England refused to be the one to break it until he heard, "Go back inside, boy."

"I don't want to."

At that, England glanced over, but his expression was skillfully guarded. He shrugged. "Do what you will."

England called him 'boy' whenever he wanted to remind America of their positions—that he was still much more experienced than America will ever be.

He grabbed England's arm and took the cigar with his other, chucking it over and out into the sea. He could see the indignation and reprimand forming in England's dangerously green eyes and in that stern mouth of his, but America was caught in his own impulsiveness and rashly pulled them into a kiss. He was strong, but England was cunning. He wrenched his arm away and jabbed America in the stomach, taking a step back. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tailored suit and growled, "Are you that desperate, boy? It's not going to work on me."

America watched in guilt and shame and despair as England turned and stepped back down the stairs into the ballroom, reminding himself to give it up. Who was he to hold affections for England, the one who has more than half the world in the palm of his hands? Who was he to want to promise England, when he was the one who forced their separation?

America was head over heels smitten with England, but he wasn't going to let him know.

This was a cliche, after all, but America wasn't going to get his perfect ending.

* * *

_._

_._

_To be continued...?_


End file.
